Everything is Relative
by whitchry9
Summary: Sherlock claims to be sick. John doesn't believe him... at least not until he returns home to find Sherlock throwing up blood. All's well until Sherlock is kidnapped and it's a race against the clock to find him before it's too late. 17 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"Come on Sherlock," John called, pulling on his shirt collar while examining it in the mirror. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

There was no response from Sherlock, but to be honest, John really hadn't expected one.

He finally left his shirt alone and strode out into the living room.

"Sherlock," he complained. "You're not even dressed."

The consulting detective was draped over the couch face first, one arm dangling off of the end, the other curled up by his side.

Sherlock muttered something into the couch which John couldn't make out.

"Didn't hear you," he sighed. "Please remove your mouth from the cushion and try again."

Sherlock obeyed, scowling fiercely at John.

"Don't wanna go. Head hurts," he said petulantly, returning his face to the cushion once again.

John sighed. "You promised to come with me for lunch. My parents want to meet you and Harry still isn't entirely convinced you exist."

Sherlock mumbled something into the couch again.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, grabbing Sherlock's arm to pull him up off the couch if he had to. It was warm. Far too warm.

He released his arm and knelt down next to his face.

"Are you sick Sherlock? You feel warm."

Sherlock turned his face out of the cushion to scowl at John. He didn't look that much different than normal, but considering he could pass for an albino the rest of the time, that didn't mean much.

John lay a hand on his forehead. "You're warm," he informed him.

Sherlock only sighed and pulled away from his touch.

"Don't wanna go," he repeated.

"Alright," John said uneasily, returning to his feet. "But only because you're not well. But this means no cases for the rest of the week, so if you're faking it, now would be the time to admit it."

There was no response from Sherlock.

"Alright," John sighed. "But you're taking some paracetamol before I leave."

Sherlock only huffed and accepted the pills John handed him a moment later, ignoring the glass of water entirely.

"You have to drink. I don't want you to get dehydrated."

Sherlock glared at him, but downed half the glass in one go.

"Right. Good enough. You should really get some sleep. In your bed," he added, knowing that Sherlock would happily sleep on the couch rather than go to his bed.

Sherlock only hummed.

"Right. I'll be back in a couple of hours. If you feel worse, text me."

Sherlock hummed again.

John stood in the doorway for a moment before leaving, a slight inkling somewhere deep in his gut that something wasn't right.

But Sherlock had been sick before, both real and faked, and he'd turned out fine. And as Sherlock so kindly pointed out, he'd lived alone perfectly fine before John came along.

Still, he figured as he headed down the stairs, he would ask Mrs Hudson to check in on him.

Just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a fun filled afternoon, one that was only compounded by the fact that Sherlock had not come like John promised.

"He's sick," John had muttered.

Harry had snorted and moved on to insulting John's blog.

He finally made it home three hours later, emotionally exhausted and irked with Sherlock for getting sick, despite the fact that it really wasn't his fault. (Probably.)

That was, until he entered the living room of the flat to the unmistakeable stench of vomit.

"God Sherlock," he complained. "Couldn't have gone for the bin or something?"

But when he found the source of the smell, he stopped dead in his tracks. It was crimson. Sherlock would never fake anything like that, or at least he wouldn't survive faking something like that because John would kill him himself.

"Bloody hell," he swore, stomping off to find Sherlock.

* * *

He was in the loo.

"This would count as one of the things that you should have texted me for," he insisted, hovering in the doorway. Sherlock was curled around the toilet, his one hand on his stomach. He made a pitiful noise and John instantly felt bad for being so harsh.

He knelt down next to Sherlock.

"Symptoms?"

Sherlock made no response other than another whimpering noise.

John rolled his eyes. "Going to do this the hard way then? Alright." He sighed, racking his brain for symptoms.

"Nausea?"

A moan.

"Fever still I'm assuming."

A hum.

"Abdominal pain?"

Another moan.

"A cough?"

No response.

"Alright, no cough. Does your throat hurt?"

Sherlock made an odd noise that half sounded like a yes, and the other half a no.

John pondered that.

"Is it sore from vomiting?"

Another hum.

"Headache still?"

A whimper.

"How about..." John hesitated. "Diarrhea?"

Another moan.

"Any blood?"

A whimper.

John sighed. "I don't like it Sherlock. You should really go to the hospital."

Sherlock's only response was a growl.

John rolled his eyes. "Well, I see that's settled then."

Sherlock sighed at him, but it seemed to be too much. He sat up, gagging and retching over the toilet bowl, producing nothing more than bloody spittle.

John's heart ached for him.

"Alright. Come on. Off to bed with you."

Sherlock made no noise of protest, which John took as permission to heave his flatmate up by the arms and practically carry him into his bedroom, where he unceremoniously dumped him on the bed.

He adjusted his arms and legs so Sherlock was lying on his side, facing off the bed, where John conveniently placed a bin.

"I'll be right back. Don't move."

John took the stairs two at a time and grabbed his kit from its designated place in his side table. He took the stairs one at a time on the way down, knowing that a broken ankle wouldn't help Sherlock any.

Thankfully, Sherlock either had listened to John about not moving, or simply didn't have the energy to.

"Open your mouth," John ordered, brandishing a thermometer.

Sherlock obeyed, which was probably an indicator of just how well he wasn't feeling.

John used the time before the thermometer beeped to dial a number on his phone, but not push the button yet.

When the thermometer beeped, he took it out of Sherlock's mouth and took both it and his phone out of the room with him.

He closed the door behind him with a final glare at Sherlock, warning him to stay put or else.

"Hello Mycroft."

"Doctor Watson. What is it now?" Mycroft sounded like he was being friendly, but John could hear the tension in his voice. He was obviously busy at the moment. _Well too damn bad. This is his brother after all._

"Sherlock is rather ill. I need some things."

Mycroft sighed. "Very well. What?"

John listed them off. Supplies for a blood draw and an IV, antibiotics and antiemetics. "I don't know what this is, but I don't like it," he admitted. "He's been vomiting up blood. And he has a high fever," he added, glancing down at the thermometer. 102.3

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise.

"I'll send them over with a courier. He'll wait for the blood draws and take them to the lab. We should have the results in less than six hours."

"Thank you," John said, but Mycroft had already hung up.

John sighed and returned to Sherlock.

Sherlock only scowled at him, having heard enough of the conversation to know that John was dragging Mycroft into this mess.

"It was either this or the hospital," he defended.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes dramatically.

* * *

Mycroft indeed sent a messenger with one bag full of the requested supplies, and the other a cooling bag for the blood samples John was to draw. John threw in a bonus sample of the bloody vomit he had yet to clean up off the carpet, figuring it couldn't hurt.

The man waited for the blood sample, accepting the lab requisition form without a word, and informed John as he left that the results should be back in around five hours. After he left, John set to work on inserting an IV in Sherlock and getting fluids and medication into him.

Sherlock just lay quietly and let John do it, again just proving how ill he was.

One dose of antibiotics, antiemetics, and a mild sedative later, and Sherlock was finally sleeping comfortably.


	3. Chapter 3

John set to checking his vitals, pleased with how his blood pressure had responded, when he heard footsteps behind him. Not Mrs Hudson, because she was out with Mrs Turner on a day trip to somewhere in the country. They wouldn't be back until late.

No, they were heavy footsteps, the footsteps of a man.

John turned to find a large man in the doorway. Not a client, because clients rang the doorbell. (Mrs Hudson had finally fixed it.) No, this was bad news.

"What the hell-" but before John could finish exploding at the man who'd barged into Sherlock's bedroom, there was a loud noise. A gun.

John's head hurt. He didn't see any blood, but was rapidly growing dizzy. He held a hand to his head, but puzzled, held it out again to look at. Since when did he have two left hands? And since when did Sherlock's bedroom have two of everything?

_Drugged, _his brain whispered. It was a little slow on the uptake, but that was understandable. Considering the circumstances.

Glancing back down at his body again, there was indeed no blood, but there was two tiny darts sticking out of his leg. _No, just one, _his brain corrected.

He took a step towards the man who'd shot him with a bloody dart gun, but his leg refused to cooperate and gave up, dumping him unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Sherlock-" he gasped. But it was too late. The man stepped over him with ease.

_Roll onto your side, _his brain urged. _You don't want to choke if you vomit. _He managed to shuffle himself into a sort of recovery position, and could only watch through darkening vision as the man heaved Sherlock over his shoulder and stepped back over John, pausing over him to leer.

"I'd intended to shoot him with the dart," he said kindly. "But considering the state he's in, everything turned out just as well, don't you think?" John wanted to snap at him, that no, it was not at all turning out well, but he was distracted by something shiny. _What the hell? Why is he sparkling? _Light bounced off the man's face and seemed to dance in front of John's eyes. He didn't think the drugs were hallucinogenic, but he could always be wrong.

"Bye," the man said, straightening up.

John wanted to protest, but that turned out to be that and he was head over heels into the rabbit hole.

* * *

He awoke an indeterminable time later with a fuzzy mouth and a pounding headache. At least he hadn't thrown up. That would have been all he needed, to choke to death on his own vomit while Sherlock was unceremoniously carted away, afflicted with some mysterious illness.

_Sherlock. _

John struggled to his feet, almost passing out again as all the blood rushed from his head. He clutched Sherlock's bed for support. His head cleared slowly, and he was able to grab his phone from where he left it on the side table.

Just as he picked it up, it began to vibrate.

John only stared at it. It took him a minute to remember that he should probably answer it. Coherently.

He shook his head a couple of times, as if the physical motion would clear the mental fog. It never did, but he kept doing it anyway.

"Hello?"

"John. We've gotten the lab results back. You need to take Sherlock to the hospital immediately."

John blinked. "What?" he managed.

"Are you listening? Sherlock needs to go to the hospital now."

"He's not here," John mumbled.

Mycroft was silent.

"_What_?!"

"Some man came in and drugged me and took him... I don't know... I don't..." he trailed off helplessly. Surely Mycroft should have seen this coming.

"Why? What did the lab results show?"

Mycroft chose his next words carefully.

"Sherlock has contracted anthrax."

John collapsed onto Sherlock's bed.

"Oh."


	4. Chapter 4

Things moved rather quickly after that. Mycroft showed up at the flat with some paramedics. They checked John over, determined he would be fine, just needed to rest and recover from the effects of whatever was in the dart. John knew that, of course, and wanted to yell at them for wasting his precious time. He needed to be out there finding Sherlock. He didn't have that much time.

"What the hell were you doing anyway Mycroft, that someone could just waltz in and drag Sherlock out and you didn't notice?"

Mycroft had no answer for him. John didn't care. He wouldn't have been satisfied either way, and perhaps Mycroft knew that.

"Right. Well, I'm hoping you can at least track him."

Mycroft sighed and pulled out a laptop.

"As soon as we heard he was missing, we checked the cameras outside Baker Street, and the surrounding ones. The one on Baker Street was tampered with, and we weren't able to get anything from it. The surrounding ones were less than helpful. I have men on it."

"No doubt," John said icily.

Mycroft fixed a glare on John. "I'm no happier about this than you are Doctor Watson."

John snorted. "Whatever. Have you figured out he got anthrax in the first place?"

"I was rather hoping you could help us out on that one. Given the vomiting, it's likely he contracted gastrointestinal anthrax, meaning he had to ingest it. The incubation period is around a week. Can you recall what Sherlock may have eaten a week ago?"

John rubbed his face with his hands. His brain was still foggy, and it really didn't help that he'd been up late the night before, Sherlock still well enough to be composing some new piece. Add that all in to the fact that Sherlock rarely ate, and John was drawing a blank.

"I dunno... did we have a case that day?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

John scowled at him. "Between your brother driving me up the wall with his carryings on and running about at all hours, and trying to maintain basic relationships with my family, I fear my memory has run rather short on that matter."

Mycroft scrutinized him.

John sighed and shook his head. "Really Mycroft, I can't recall. I haven't had enough sleep, and my whole life is pretty much a blur nowadays."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was not at all pleased when he woke. Part of that was because he felt like crap, and the other part was because of what he awoke to. His kidnapper. While he vaguely remembered John being shot with a tranquilizer dart, he couldn't quite recall what happened after that, but probably involved him being drugged as well. Something on top of the mild sedative John had given him. It was hard to differentiate the symptoms of whatever illness he had from the effects of the most likely sedative drugs.

For now, he assumed it was a very definite possibility.

John had dosed him with a combination of paracetamol, antiemetics, and antibiotics before he'd been so rudely interrupted, as well as a large amount of intravenous fluids, which Sherlock assumed was what was causing him to feel so much better than before. It was a false recovery, only to relapse and possibly get worse as time went on, trapped here with this man who likely had no inclination to keep Sherlock healthy.

But for the six or so hours that he did feel well enough to keep his eyes open and deduce, he might as well make the best of it.

He looked up at the man.

"Hello."

The man smirked, like he'd expected this.

"Hello...Sherlock Holmes."

"I seem to be at a disadvantage," Sherlock said amicably.

The man sneered. "And you are going to remain there."

Sherlock sighed. "I'd assumed so. Are you going to kill me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm holding you for ransom."

_Without a mask. That's never good. Either he doesn't plan for me to make it, or he's really stupid._

And with that, he left, presumably to make phone calls or whatever people who kidnapped consulting detective for ransom did.

And Sherlock waited.


	6. Chapter 6

Shortly after Mycroft glared at John, but left him alone as he went to natter at various important people, Sherlock's cell phone rang.

Baffled, John only stared at it for a minute for before answering it. It wasn't Lestrade, and there weren't that many other people who would call Sherlock. Most of them were in the flat at the moment.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Watson I presume."

John didn't like it. "Who is this?" he asked, motioning wildly to Mycroft to come over.

"That's not important. What is important is that I have a friend of yours. A certain detective?"

John's heart sank. _Sherlock. _Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John, who mouthed 'kidnapper' at him.

"And what do you want?" John asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Five million quid."

"Hang on, his brother is going to want to hear this. He's the one with the money after all." John set the phone down on the table and put it on speakerphone.

John nodded to Mycroft.

"Mycroft Holmes here. I believe you have my brother."

"Damn right sweetheart," he sneered. "And it'll cost you five million quid to get him back."

"What makes you think I want him back?" Mycroft asked smoothly.

John opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft silenced him with another glare.

"Just ask him. We don't have the best relationship."

"Is that so?"

In the background, John could hear him asking Sherlock something about his brother. Sherlock laughed in reply. The man returned. "Well, I don't think you want to leave him with me."

"Oh," Mycroft said without a beat. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Kill him of course." John could practically hear the smile on his face. He scowled at Mycroft, who only held up a finger, begging him to wait.

"Well..." he sighed. "I suppose Mummy wouldn't like that too much. Can't allow that to happen. Five million quid you said?"

"Yeah. Unmarked bills. Nothing clever."

"Of course. And where are we to exchange the money?"

"I'll be in touch," he growled, and hung up without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

The man popped his head in to ask Sherlock about his relationship with his brother, holding his hand over a phone. Sherlock only laughed. He was obviously calling about the ransom. He hoped John was in on that conversation. It would have been amusing, watching the man and Mycroft in a pissing match. It was almost worth getting kidnapped over.

Almost. May have been worth it if he didn't feel so damn awful.

Sherlock Holmes was not a doctor. (Although at one point during his childhood, after the dream of being a pirate was squashed, he pondered going into a career in medicine, ditching that idea after realizing how many stupid people a doctor had to deal with. And be _nice_ about it.) But even though he did not have an MD after his name like a certain flatmate, he was sure that he was not at all doing well. Maybe even dying.

That would be great.

He could feel the all over aches and chills of a high fever, and knew that was never a good sign. Combine that with the vomiting blood and abdominal pain, and Sherlock knew he was in big trouble.

And yet here he was, kidnapped yet again, just another meaningless man wanting a meaningless thing. Money. Sherlock really didn't like money, although he had to admit it was useful. It could buy evidence and break his way into crime scenes, but money usually just got in the way of things that mattered. John took care of buying the groceries, paying the bills, and giving Mrs Hudson the rent, usually throwing some extra in on top to make up for whatever damage Sherlock caused that month. Worrying about money was like having knowledge on the solar system. Trivial and not worth his time.

And yet here he was, kidnapped by a man who was driven solely by money.

_Not, that's not all, is it? Sure, there's the money, but what does he want the money for? _

Lots of people are desperate for money, but few are so desperate that they will kidnap a well known detective and hold him for ransom. It was a big risk, and not one worth taking if it wasn't necessary. Sherlock knew of at least a dozen other ways the man could make the cash he was demanding, but it would take time, something Sherlock suspected the man didn't have.

_So it's time sensitive. That helps. _

Sherlock kept focused on the puzzle rather than the pain. The man had returned after his phone call and was studying Sherlock, rather like an animal at the zoo.

"So," Sherlock began conversationally. "What's the money for?"

"None of your business," the man growled.

Sherlock chuckled. "Actually, I think it is entirely my business, considering you are holding me for ransom. I'd like to know what the money is for."

"Nothing specific."

"Of course it is. This is a huge risk you're taking. You need this money and you need it yesterday. But what for?"

The man glowered at him.

Sherlock took that opportunity to examine his surroundings while he still had a relatively clear head.

It wasn't a very good setup. Sherlock was tied to a chair with a combination of bungee cords, zip ties, and rough rope. He was probably in this man's basement. That was always dangerous. He wasn't a professional, just an amateur, fuelled by emotion and need.

_The puzzle. Focus on the puzzle. The puzzle is what's important._

Right. Need. But no, there was something. Something that Sherlock had said to the cabbie on his and John's first case together, the case that was the start of something great.

"_Love is a much more vicious motivator."_

Oh yes. That was it.

"Love," he said simply.

The man looked at him and narrowed his eyes.

"What would you know about that," he snarled.

Sherlock smirked. "More than you'd think. That's what this is about, isn't it. Love."

Oh yes. That was getting a reaction. There was a flash of emotion across his face, making him look vulnerable, but it passed quickly and the mask was back.

Sherlock scanned him again.

_Oh, yes that's it. That explains it. Why didn't I see that before? _

He blamed the fever for his lack of deduction skills.

"Your daughter."

_The glitter that occasionally catches the light, it's odd for a grown man to come in contact with glitter. But not if he has a daughter, probably around six, who likes to pretend she's a princess. Hands dry and cracked from frequent use of alcoholic hand sanitizer, so she's probably immunocompromised and in hospital._

"She needs expensive treatment, doesn't she?" Sherlock looked at him, waiting. He would give in.

"Experimental drugs. She was part of a trial, and they paid for it, but now..." He trailed his fingers along the wall as he spoke, unable to look at Sherlock. "She's doing so well. But I can't afford to pay for it." He turned back to Sherlock. "I'm already working two jobs, and my wife can't work because she's caring for her." He swallowed hard. "I don't get to see her enough."

Sherlock waited patiently as the man collected himself.

"It's ten thousand pounds a month just for the drugs."

Sherlock nodded. He needed to earn this man's trust, seem sympathetic. Which he was. It was an awful thing to be forced to watch a child die, simply because someone higher up decided a treatment didn't have enough evidence to be worthwhile.

He would be talking to Mycroft about that.

The man seemed to be finished.

"It's not fair," Sherlock murmured.

The man glared at him suspiciously.

Sherlock tried to smile, but had to resist the urge to gag. He didn't want the man to see how ill he was. Or would it be a good thing? "It's not," he repeated, trying to sit up straighter without passing out or chafing his wrist further. "The system is broken, but that doesn't mean," he stifled a cough, "doesn't mean..."

It was too much. He coughed and gagged. He could feel the man staring at him, but there was no stopping it now that he'd started.

It finally ended, him spitting out a gross mix of blood and sputum, the man growing more worried.

"You sick?" he asked. It almost sounded like he cared.

Sherlock raised a eyebrow at him.

"What does it look like?" He meant to snap at him, but it came out weaker than intended.

He scrutinized him.

"Then your friends had better hurry up."

With that he turned his back on Sherlock, climbed the stairs, and threw him one last smile before flicking out the light.

It was going to be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

The first twenty four hours passed in a whirlwind of panic, internet searches, blurry CCTV pictures, and a revolting mix of tea and coffee. They were no closer to finding Sherlock.

John was practically having a breakdown at this point.

"He is dying Mycroft. Actually dying. It's not just that 'Oh, Sherlock has been kidnapped again, wonder what he's doing' but _actually dying. _If we don't find him soon, we might not find him alive!" He was pacing around the living room, nearly blowing down stacks of papers as he blew by.

"And you're sitting there _drinking your bloody tea. _How BRITISH of you!"

John really didn't know how he did it, sitting there calmly sipping his tea while his brother lay in some potential psychopath's lair, going into shock, or bleeding out, or something, where John was nearly chewing his fingers off with worry.

He muttered some more things under his breath and waved his hands through the air as he continued to pace.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said firmly.

John quit pacing and gaped at him. No wonder the man practically ran the British government, because he may put on a good show of being mild manner and friendly (one that Sherlock and John never fell for) when he got right down to it, everyone knew he meant business.

Mycroft did a little half smile, pleased that John had obeyed. "If you do not calm down, I will have some of my associates administer a sedative. This is not healthy. You need to go upstairs and sleep."

John opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by another glare.

"You may be forgetting John, that I did indeed grow up with Sherlock. Who do you think forced him to sleep before you came along?"

John opened his mouth again, but slammed it shut as he realized the gravity of Mycroft's statement.

"You'll wake me if anything turns up? Anything?"

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Of course."

John knew that smile. Sherlock had a version of it himself. It must be the Holmes "look at me I'm so clever and I've won" smile.

John hated it.

He stomped off to his bedroom, determined to prove Mycroft wrong, which of course failed as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	9. Chapter 9

The first night was long. The day was longer. But the second night was longest.

Sherlock had always known about the relative nature of time, how it sped by while he was on a case or doing an experiment, and how it crept by on broken limbs while he was bored, waiting for a case or anything to take his mind away from the tedium.

But perhaps time had never been so relative as it was now, creeping by as he grew weaker and weaker, feeling the tendrils of a headache snaking around his mind, the stupid shivers of a fever, and the occasional upheaval that always shone bright red despite the darkness of the room. And yet, it wasn't only slow, relatively speeding towards the supposed ransom exchange, all the while his symptoms worsening. He had a sneaking suspicion of what he had, however unlikely it may be, and wasn't feeling very hopeful about his chances of a complete recovery, let alone survival.

And so each minute passing was both a blessing and a curse, or at least would have been if Sherlock had believed in anything of the sort.


	10. Chapter 10

John awoke six hours later, gasping for breath, having been in the midst of a nightmare when the soft prod of an umbrella awakened him.

"Jesus Mycroft," he gasped, knowing that he could have killed him if it had come down to it. "You really shouldn't do that."

Mycroft only smiled thinly. Of course he knew that. Which was precisely why John had been prodded with an umbrella rather than a hand to the shoulder.

"Is there news?" he asked, heart racing that had nothing to do with the nightmare.

"It is preliminary," he warned, "But we believe we may have found a trail."

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Excellent."

"Why don't you get dressed and I'll meet you in the living room in a few minutes."

John glanced down at the clothes he'd slept in, which were now heavily rumpled and soaked with a cold sweat.

"Yeah," he said, but Mycroft had already slipped out the door.


	11. Chapter 11

It was another three hours until Mycroft pinpointed Sherlock's location, another half to put a team together, and another half to get there.

John felt he could have run there faster than wait for the car to weave in and out of traffic. Lestrade was leading the way in a squad car, sirens blaring, which he cut out a minute before they reached their destination.

It was a small unassuming house with a little garden out front. It looked like such a happy place.

John wasn't allowed to go in until the tactical team had swept the house and removed the man in handcuffs.

He was crying and shouting, pulling his arms away from the men who were leading him, begging them to let him go, that his little girl needed him, that he was only trying to make things right.

He paused for a second in front of John, stilling, and John could see the faint reflections of early morning sunshine off his face. He was sparkling. John hadn't imagined it while drugged. But there was more. John may not have been as observant as Sherlock, may not have been the world's only consulting detective, but he sure as hell recognized desperation when he saw it. The man was telling the truth about his daughter, his little princess who was liberal with the sparkles as well as the hugs, who very well did need him.

He'd talk to Mycroft after he found Sherlock and made sure he was safe.

Men searched the house while John gravitated towards a door that he felt was the right one. He opened it and peered down into the dark. Basement. An excellent place to hide a hostage.

"Over here!" he bellowed, fumbling around for a light. Someone thrust a torch into his hand and he shone it on the steps as he hopped down them, swinging the light around looking for Sherlock. Just as his beam hit something vaguely human shaped, someone found the lights, and they were flicked on. John really wished they hadn't been, because they revealed something he'd been hoping not to see for the past day and a half. Sherlock was slumped over, tied to a chair, his legs and hands bound. He looked mostly dead. Likely could be.

"God Sherlock," John gasped, running over to his side.

But he wasn't. His heart was racing, his breathing was shallow, and his eyes were sunken into his skull, a sure sign of dehydration, perhaps even septic shock. Likely septic shock given the amount of time he'd gone untreated for. One dose of broad spectrum antibiotics two days ago wouldn't have done nearly enough.

"We need to intubate, and get some fluids into him..." John trailed off, feebly grasping at Sherlock's hand. "He's in shock..." he tried again. But John seemed doomed to clutch at Sherlock's hand, unable to do much else but watch as the paramedics settled around him, shouting things he couldn't hear. He only watched the faint pulse jump in his neck and keep his fingers firmly around the one in his wrist, half convinced that if he let go it would disappear. He only looked away from Sherlock's neck when a hand was on his shoulder, trying to pull him away.

Lestrade.

John tried to jerk out of his grasp, who was he to pull him away, but Lestrade seemed insistent that John listen to him. He tried, really hard, to focus on the words, but they weren't making a whole lot of sense.

"Hospital." He could make that one out. But there was more. Damn his brain for not working right now, right when it was needed. He'd treated patients while surrounded by bombs and gunfire before, and yet now he couldn't hear Lestrade speaking right next to him, with nothing louder than the screeching of a hear monitor.

_A heart monitor._

John wanted to apologize to Lestrade, he wanted to listen, he really did, but there were more important things going on now, like the paramedics that were pounding on Sherlock's chest, no doubt cracking ribs that were far too close to the surface.

But Lestrade was painfully insistent, grabbing both of John's upper arms and gripping them tight. It would have hurt if he'd had any attention to pay to how he was feeling.

"Leave them." Lestrade said firmly. "Let them do their job. If there isn't room in the ambulance, I'll take you in my car."

John nodded, dazed, and confused as to how he could hear Lestrade now. Perhaps because it was so quiet. No more screeching. Just the steady, albeit rapid, beeping that was expected of a heart rate. John let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and almost collapsed. Would have collapsed if not for Lestrade's tight grip that was still on his upper arms.

John heard the paramedics call out numbers, saw them lift Sherlock onto a gurney and wheel him away.

"Where's your car?" he managed to ask Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded and led him out of the room. He was probably relieved that John had realized it would be better for him to go in a car rather than the ambulance, not forced to drag him. But John knew he was in shock, not the same shock Sherlock was in, but shock none the less. And he would only get in the way, clutching at Sherlock's hand to tether him to life.

And although Sherlock would claim it wouldn't have mattered to him, John knows he would have preferred him to be in the ambulance. But if Sherlock hadn't gotten himself into this predicament- John made his brain stop there, cursing himself. _How dare you think this is Sherlock's fault? It's not. So stop that, stop it right now. _

He half laughed, half sobbed, and was thankful Lestrade pretended not to hear, even though they both knew that he did.

Lestrade just continued on in silence, speeding down the road with his sirens on, chasing after the ambulance that held the world's only consulting detective.

John couldn't hear the sirens, not over the sound of his own mind screaming at him that he should have done better, tried harder, not gotten shot with the damn tranquilizer dart. And while there was a tiny bit of him that knew he couldn't have, it was drowned out by the screaming bit.

John now understood why Sherlock sometimes just screamed at everyone, with all those thoughts in his brain bombarding him, vying for attention on top of all the people who kept nattering at him. He wanted to scream at them all too, but knew it would accomplish nothing. So he laid his head in his lap and _breathed._


	12. Chapter 12

John sat exhausted in one of the many waiting room he frequented at the hospital. Usually he was the family member waiting, but occasionally he'd been the doctor they'd been waiting for, the bearer of cautious hope or bad news.

Having been on both sides, he hated both equally. Waiting was awful, but knowing that you had to go in there and tell family members it was time to say goodbye was equally as heart wrenching.

He felt sorry for the doctor who would have to tell him the news, whatever it may be.

* * *

But when the door opened, and John looked up hopefully, as well as fearfully, it was not a doctor at all, but Lestrade.

John hoped he didn't look too crestfallen to see him instead.

Lestrade sat down next to him.

"Any news?" he asked, not expecting any.

John shook his head.

"Nothing."

Lestrade nodded. They sat in silence for another minute before John spoke up.

"Did you look into the man's daughter?"

Lestrade nodded. "She's got one of those weird forms of cancer. She was in an experimental trial, but it ended, and they can't afford the drugs." He sighed. "I don't know John."

"Excuse me," he said, standing up abruptly.

"John?" Lestrade asked, rising next to him.

"I'm fine," he said, brushing off the hand Lestrade held out tentatively. "I need to talk to Mycroft."

Lestrade nodded and sat back down again, and John wandered out into the hallway, still rather dazed.

As if summoned, Mycroft appeared just as John began wondering where to look for him.

"John," he greeted him.

"Mycroft, there are some things we need to talk about," John whispered urgently, peering around, as though he might disturb the janitors or orderlies that occasionally brushed by him.

"If it's about the kidnapper's daughter, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

"Bullocks," John hissed, still looking around. "We both know that this would never have happened if experimental drugs were paid for by the government."

Mycroft looked at him with an entirely demeaning expression that made John second guess himself.

_I'm not wrong, _he told himself, with more confidence than he felt. That was shattered when Mycroft opened his mouth.

"Sherlock would still be ill, and while not to this extent, would still have a life threatening infection."

John took a deep breath before he spoke. "Maybe he would, but at least he would not have been kept in a basement in horrible conditions with a potentially fatal disease, all because a man couldn't stand the idea that his daughter was no longer going to receive treatment that was actually working because the government didn't want to pay for it!" John hadn't noticed it, but his voice had increased in volume during his little tirade. He looked around, embarrassed, but thankfully, it seemed no one had heard him.

Mycroft smiled thinly at him. "The drugs are not going to be paid for because they have stopped working."

John stopped dead. "What?"

"While our kidnapper was correct about some things, about how the drugs had been making a huge improvement, I'm afraid the little girl has stopped responding. It doesn't matter if she is given the drugs now or not, the fact remains she will soon die."

John just looked at him, the man who relayed these facts with a stony expression, as if the words meant nothing to him, as if he wasn't telling John about how a little girl was going to die, and how a father, despite being told otherwise, fought his hardest to save her.

_You machine._

There was so much John wanted to say, but he didn't, just spun on his heel and returned to the waiting room, Lestrade looking at him with a bewildered expression.

"Did you talk to him about the girl?"

"Yes."

Lestrade continued to stare at him, almost as if he was pondering delving into it, but finally deciding not to based on the look on John's face. A wise decision on his part.

They sat in silence for what seemed like forever, but was actually only five minutes.

"You have to let him spend time with his daughter," John said quietly.

Lestrade looked over at him, but John didn't move.

"She's going to die soon, and he needs to be there."

Lestrade didn't ask how he knew, or why he thought that, just nodded, and slipped out the door to make a phone call.

John looked up again when the door opened, but it was only Lestrade returning.

He didn't care if the disappointment showed on his face.

"It's done," he told John.

John nodded minutely.

They sat in silence again.

* * *

The door opened. John didn't look up, not wanting to be disappointed. Lestrade did, and was rewarded with the sight of a doctor.

"Doctor Watson and Mr Lestrade?"

John looked up at that, examining the man's face for any signs of apologies, _sorry we couldn't save him, sorry he's brain damaged, sorry he'll need an organ transplant, _but the man's face was a mask, and John wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

He pulled a chair up and sat across from him.

"Mr Holmes does indeed have gastrointestinal anthrax, we double checked the labs just to make sure, and while we will need to figure out how he contracted it, that's not what's important right now. He's in critical condition, but very much alive."

John's heart did a funny flip at that news, and he heard Lestrade sigh of relief beside him.

The doctor continued, talking about shock and dehydration, dangerous arrhythmias, and long term effects, but John was still focused on his previous words.

_Very much alive._

They made his heart sing.


	13. Chapter 13

When they were allowed to see him, Lestrade politely declined, saying he had to go, which John knew was partly true. Kidnapping cases always involved a lot of paperwork, and ones that involved both the Holmes brother could only be hell as far as that was concerned, but John knew it was more than that. He knew that half of the Yard believed he was in a relationship with Sherlock, and the other half probably believed they hadn't yet made a move, and Lestrade was no exception. He wanted to leave John alone to greet Sherlock and do whatever else he may.

So while John was irked by the implication, it certainly was nothing new, and appreciated the privacy he would have with Sherlock, so he could yell at him or admit how terrified he'd been, without an audience.

* * *

It was probably best that Lestrade wasn't there, as John nearly burst into tears at the sight of Sherlock. Whether they were tears of relief, or whatever else, that was anyone's guess. It had been an emotionally fuelled couple of days, and John really had no emotional defences left.

He sat down at Sherlock's bedside and gripped his hand.

He was intubated, IV lines everywhere, various other tubes snaking out from under the covers, wires and patched dotting his chest, and the most alarming, double tubes leading to what John recognized as a dialysis machine.

_Probably just a precaution, _he assured himself, knowing that shock could lead to organ failure. Hopefully they had gotten to him in time, and this was just a little push until Sherlock's kidneys could handle the full load on their own again. And if John knew him at all, if Sherlock awoke and found his kidneys weren't working, he would talk them into working.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

He had a feeding tube and central line, trying to replenish all the fluid and nutrients he'd lost, as well as fill him with antibiotics to fight the infection, and sedatives to allow him to sleep.

John could use some sleep, which was what he realized just before his neck gave up on holding up his head, and collapsed on the foot of Sherlock's bed.

It would do for sleeping, just for now anyway.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock hated those stupid cliches, like when people were in love and said that they were puzzle pieces that fit together. What puzzle ever only had two pieces? Really, with that metaphor, they were only setting themselves up for failure.

Life was so much more than that, so much better. More like a puzzle with millions of pieces that could fit in more than one spot, and sometimes changed, and where no one knew what the picture on the box was supposed to be, but sometimes you just clicked and knew that was where you were always meant to be.

And when Sherlock awoke to find John's head perched on the end of his bed, he knew that he and John fit together like two puzzle pieces that were meant to be, not two that were forced together, pushed in where they didn't belong, and yet had been forced to go, much like him and his brother.

And Sherlock had never felt like that before, never felt that he'd found someone who could actually genuinely like him as a person, and not just as an ability. He'd always wondered if he was destined to be an outlier, an anomaly, a relative freak.

Because while he could pretend, while he could walk the walk and talk the talk, dress like he was one of them, and fake his feelings, he never clung to the charade. He always reverted back to himself, preferring to be hated for who he was than loved for a persona. And no matter how many people admired him, not matter how many he helped or saved, to them, he would always still be a freak to them.

But not to John. And John was the one who mattered, just as much of a freak as Sherlock, just better at hiding it. And when they were together, his strangeness was relative, and no where near as bad as some made it out to be. And he was thankful for that, and for John. He wanted so much to tell John, but he was tired and it hurt, the aches of the illness, the tube in his throat, and the bacteria twisting his insides around.

But he remembered the man and his princess, and suddenly his pain didn't feel as bad.

Physical pain was always easier to deal with.

He fell asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

When John awoke, Sherlock showed no signs of change, either good or bad, which John took as a good sign. Most people who contracted gastrointestinal anthrax died within two to five days after symptoms started, and it was going on four days with Sherlock. John remained cautiously optimistic about his chances of a full recovery.

The real question was now, how the hell did Sherlock contract anthrax? Especially gastrointestinal anthrax, which was the rarest form, needing to be ingested.

Mycroft was of course looking into it, but John suspected he wouldn't be able to find anything.

It could always have been an accident, but considering how rarely Sherlock ate, was bordering on near impossible. It was more likely someone had given it to Sherlock on purpose, intending to kill, or at least put him out of business for a while. But as for who would do that, besides the obvious Moriarty, John really had no clue.

Perhaps Sherlock was the only one who could actually help.

When he woke up.

* * *

John dozed on and off for most of the morning,watching the heart monitor with lazy eyes to reassure himself that Sherlock's heart was still beating, despite having quit recently.

There was the tingle of someone watching you, and John moved his gaze from the heart monitor to the consulting detective's face. Sherlock's pale eyes were fixed on him, and as soon as Sherlock realized John was looking back, he rolled them in a sign of exasperation.

_There he is, _John thought fondly.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock had recovered relatively quickly, just like he did everything, fast and to the extreme. Mycroft had been keeping an eye on the little girl of the man who had kidnapped Sherlock, and advised on the information from her doctor, that if Sherlock and John were to visit her, they should do so soon.

John thought this was an awful idea, Sherlock not being physically recovered enough, let alone emotionally strong enough to face this, but somehow, he lost the argument.

Sherlock really hadn't been well enough to leave the ICU, let alone his bed, but somehow, John ended up pushing Sherlock in a wheelchair to the paediatric floor.

"This really isn't necessary you know Sherlock," John had muttered, openly uncomfortable about the whole thing.

"Yes it is," Sherlock replied quietly, fiddling with the oxygen cannula in his nose.

"Stop it," he warned.

Sherlock sighed, but lowered his hand.

John slowed as they neared a room with a security guard outside the door.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am John," he snapped. "I've been sure every time you asked me. My mind is made up."

John sighed and fought to turn the wheelchair to aim it through the door. The security guard nodded at him, and he nodded back.

The man and his wife were sitting in chairs side by side, looking at them as they entered, but avoiding eye contact. John felt sorry for the woman, now knowing what her husband had done, and at the time, probably clueless and unable to prevent it. But her husband...

John hated the man, hated him for almost killing Sherlock, despite not intending to. (What really matters in the world, intention or outcome?) He hated the man for shooting him with a tranquilizer dart and leaving him on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom while his flatmate and best friend was carried out above him.

And at the same time, John couldn't hate him, because he completely understood. If he had a daughter, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't do the same thing. Hell, if circumstances were different, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't do the same thing for Sherlock.

But everything else aside, this man was about to lose his daughter, and no one should be forced to miss that while locked away in jail.

* * *

John and Sherlock had chosen not to learn the man's name, not wanting to get any more involved than they already were, but they had both wanted to learn his daughter's name. It was Amira.

She lay in the bed, a pink gown covering her, one that John knew was homemade, not hospital issue. She had countless tubes and wires crisscrossing her small body, and an oxygen mask that was too large for her covering her face. She was tiny beyond belief. She was dying.

"Amira," Sherlock whispered, reaching out to grab the small hand that lay near the edge of the bed. The fingernails were painted pink, all but the one the pulse ox was covering. "Meaning princess." He stroked it lovingly, and set it back down. "How fitting."

Sherlock looked at the wife of the man who had kidnapped him.

"I'm very sorry," he said kindly.

And with that, he was ready to leave.

John nodded at the couple as he pulled the wheelchair backwards out of the room. Before they could even pass the security guard, there was a whining sound behind them, a sound that had been ingrained in John's nightmares ever since the day he'd found Sherlock in that basement, the sound of a heart monitor signalling nothingness. There was a wail from the mother, and a nurse rushed in to turn off the sound. There would be no lifesaving measures here.

John gritted his teeth and blinked back the tears and he pushed Sherlock towards the elevator.

He'd always hated the paediatric floor.


	17. Chapter 17

They rode the elevator back to Sherlock's room in silence. Mycroft was waiting there for them, but left as soon as he saw the look on John's face.

John helped Sherlock into bed and collapsed into the chair. He was lost in his thoughts.

Sherlock was sitting in bed, still pulling at the nasal cannula, but John was too distracted to notice and scold him. To busy mulling over the marriage that was likely to end, as did a quarter of marriages after a child's death, and not to mention the fact the man would be going to prison now. Mulling over the life that had ended far too soon, of the sleeping beauty that could never awake, no prince around that could kiss her and wake her up.

Sherlock must have heard John thinking about it, because he did the only thing he knew how to do to help.

He deduced.

"He was lying when he said the tranquilizer dart was meant for me," he began absentmindedly. John looked up at him. "There was only one in the gun, and if he'd done any research at all, he'd have known we live together. Even with one of us tranquilized, the other would pose a threat. He knew that I was going to be out of commission. Or," he paused thoughtfully. "Maybe the dart was intended for me because you were supposed to be the one who was sick."

John looked over at him. "Sherlock, are you saying?... That it was planned for one of us to be sick?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Which means..." John trailed off.

"Our favourite consulting criminal was involved," Sherlock confirmed.

"We should probably tell Mycroft," John noted wearily.

"I suspect he already knows," Sherlock noted, squirming against the pillows.

John shook his head. "Yeah, of course."

They were silent for an eternity and for a second, one lost in a mind palace and the other lost in the sound a mother made when her child ceased to exist.

They were both interrupted when a nurse came to take Sherlock's vitals.

When she left, John looked at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," he told Sherlock miserably.

Sherlock only waved a hand at him dismissively. No one needed to explain what the other meant.

_I'm sorry I let them take you, even though I couldn't do anything about it. I'm sorry I left you home alone when I should have stayed, even though there was no way for me to know. I'm sorry I let you get anthrax instead of me, even though it can't be helped. I'm sorry you're the one hurting now, both emotionally and physically, while I'm only hurt emotionally._

In the end, John didn't choose any of those.

"I'm sorry for the pain you suffered," he said quietly.

Sherlock chewed on that for a moment. "But..." he said carefully, "Pain is relative."

John nodded, thinking about the little princess and her sparkling father.

"Yes. Everything is relative."


End file.
